The Loser's Game
by Grando181
Summary: Stan can never be a winner in the game he plays. No one knows when the change occurred, but the emminent cry for help remains. The question remains of what happened? WARNING: Major Slash/Mature.
1. It's not like you, Stan

Disclaimer: South Park is the creation of Matt Stone and Trey Parker. Beware of hidden satanic messages. This fan fiction is a product of watching too many episodes in the span of three days and suffers "AU" slaughter. It should not be read by anyone who does not understand the term "AU". Voltaire is God. Voltaire, also, has nothing to do with this disclaimer. PS. Reviews Welcome.

Let's begin, shall we?

* * *

When South Park's very own football team had an away game the boys would share hotel rooms—two per bed. Often, due to quantity, two members on the team had the privilege of having a single rather than sharing a room with four people. The privileges were traditionally granted to the team captain and top athlete, but after the first few away games, Token requested to stay with the others claiming that "inability to compromise with Stanley Marsh." Not feeling the need to question the sacrifice, the coach agreed, deciding to be fair by having a rotation of players. 

Stan didn't mind one way or the other.

He was different than the rest of the team. When the other boys would laugh, tossing Playboys across the locker room while having sprayed-deodorant fights, Stan found himself watching, lips pursed together, eyes calm and tranquil.

Watching was a favorite hobby, and watching the team brought a new reason to play.

He played it for the boys.

It was maybe by the second away game that he made his move on Token, cautiously turning on his side as an arm traveled over his side. The boy stiffened and called him a faggot but not before Stan's hand encircled the other's hard on. It was by the next game that the room request changed.

The following game, Stan lay in bed next to Craig. He was relatively close to Token, the runaway captain. Broad shouldered and angry, he easily became the next challenge. Stan placed a hand on Craig's chest as they laughed about again now breaking a 60-point lead, then slid it lower. The boy pulled back but Stan whispered a promise of silence, a promise to give him affection, a simple blow job that would spin his mind. Craig groaned, releasing hard into the condom Stan had rolled on him not minutes before.

"You tell anyone, I'll kill you," Craig whispered, threat clear as they wrapped their arms around each other and fell asleep.

The next game came and the same ordeal passed with Clyde. A similar line with Tweek. Stan had grown so accustomed to the program that when his hand moved to close around Butter's length he was caught off guard by the hand encircling his wrist and holding him back.

"The others do it too," Stan said quickly. "Token, Craig, Clyde—I've felt half the team. They're not as straight as you think." A second hand moved, again to get stopped by a hand.

"N-n-now Stan, I-I don't think I'm interested in this and I-I think it's rotten that you would do this to yourself," he stumbled, sitting upright. "And d-don't you have a girlfriend? That Wendy is pretty nice-"

"I'm not looking for a girlfriend-"

"Oh. Well maybe you should ask Kyle then. Or talk with your buddies—they seem pretty nice."

"Look, can we not talk about my friends right now?" Stan interjected.

"Oh, ah, alright. You probably want to get to sleep anyway since it's late." Without so much another word, Butters fell into the realm of sleep. Burned by his first rejection, Stan had trouble falling asleep that night.

The next game came and went—Stan didn't press his luck. Another game passed and the same tradition pursued. It was the second to last game when Craig requested that he share a room with the quarterback. Lifted spirits, the boys wasted no time crawling into bed, arms and legs flailing and entangling around one another. Craig kissed rough—everything about him was rough from the way his teeth closed around the other's lower lip and to the way he straddled Stan's waist, to the way his hands found the other's throat, encircling tightly. The air seeped from his lungs as Stan's flailed, hands gripping onto Craig's in an attempt to loosen the other's hold.

"I told you I'd kill you if you told anyone," he hissed, allowing his hands enough slack for the other to take a short breath.

"C-craig, I'm sorry dude!"

"Don't you know what you did?" his hands closed tighter again. "Butters ratted out to everyone. Cartman's posting about it on Myspace. Everyone knows." His hands released a fraction again and Stan wheezed for breath.

"Craig! I-"

"You don't fuck with me," he squeezed tighter. "And you don't fuck with my friends." Craig's hands slid from Stan's neck to his hips as he coughed, inhaling as deeply as he could.

"Roll over," Craig growled.

"What?" Stan choked, perplexed for only a moment as Craig lifted himself off the other's stomach. "You're not suggesting-"

"Roll over," the boy reiterated.

Stan's eyes closed and he reluctantly obeyed, fingers gripping the bed as his boxers were yanked off. The corner of a pillow was shoved into his mouth. Craig's right hand pressed hard in between the quarterback's shoulder blades holding him flat against the mattress; his left hand tore a wrapper open. After a moment, he leg go, hands gripping onto the boy's hips, slamming an endowed length inside without so much a simple preparation. Stan screamed, muted by the thickness of the pillow as the slams came harder and faster, skin slapping against skin. He felt something tear, a wet heat, before Craig groaned and pulled out. The condom was unpeeled and thrown in the trash can.

"Get a shower and sleep on the floor," Craig grunted, crawling underneath the covers before turning on his side. Stan limped to the bathroom, crying only once the door was locked and the cold water hit the back of his blood-caked thighs.

"I don't want to room with Stan; he's such a faggot," Craig complained the next morning to the laughter of his fellow teammates.

"Shut up, Craig," Stan retorted, eyes narrowed. Cartman cackled, shaking his head as he sank to his knees.

"Oh, thank you God. Thank you so much for making Stan's life hell!" he declared. "Now if you'll only get rid of the Jew-"

"Shut up, fat ass!" Kyle retorted, swinging a punch at the boy. For the moment, Stan felt safe from the wrath of rumors—a part of him wondered if the jab at Kyle was Cartman's way of drawing attention away from himself or whether it was incidental.

For the next game, Stan was demoted to a quad. He wasn't sure if it was luck or misfortune that paired him with Kyle, Cartman, and Kenny, but he decided it beat rooming with Pip, Butters, and Jimmy.

Behind closed doors, conversation strayed from blatant sexuality jokes, at least no more than a typical banter. Stan shared a bed with Kyle; Cartman and Kenny shared the other double though Kenny complained that Cartman's ass took up three quarters of the bed. Stan said nothing but moved to the far end of his bed, arms wrapped around his chest with his back toward Kyle.

"You know-" Kyle whispered, confident Cartman and Kenny were asleep by their silence, "-you can tell me anything, right? It's not like I'm going to judge you differently just because you're… you know."

"Gay?"

"Yeah. Gay."

Silence. Stan rolled onto his back, shoulder brushing against Kyle's. They lay in silence, staring at the shadow patterns on the ceiling.

"Could you love me?" Stan asked. Kyle shifted.

"If I weren't straight, I would," he replied, turning on his side. A hand was lifted, brushing the mop of black bangs away from Stan's forehead. Stan said nothing though he flinched.

"What the hell happened to you, Stan?" he mused out loud.

Stan couldn't answer.

He soon was greeted by the silence that accompanied sleep. It was only in this sleep that Stan was able to lean over his friend's body and press his lips to the other's forehead.

"Love shouldn't matter if you're a girl or guy," he whispered then shifted onto his side, greeted by the warmth behind him as he beckoned sleep to come.


	2. Camera Phones and Bruised Knuckles

Disclaimer: South Park is the creation of Matt Stone and Trey Parker. Beware of hidden Bohemian messages. This fan fiction is a product of watching too many episodes in the span of xxx days and suffers "AU" slaughter. It should not be read by anyone who does not understand the term "AU". Freddie Mercury is God. Queen, also, has nothing to do with this disclaimer.

Let's begin, shall we?

* * *

"Shut up, Kenny!" Kyle's left eye peered open before the right followed, eyes adjusting to the room. Noxious whispers were far from his preferred method of rising, but it was the tone of the hisses that drew his attention. He squeezed his eyes shut again, rubbing the side of his face into the pillow, basking in the warmth of the bed.

"Got it!"

"Sweet, give it to me."

"Fuck off, fat ass."

"Ay! I'm not fat-"

The task of sleep, Kyle believed, was infeasible—granted Kenny's voice always seemed too crisp without the hood to his parka drawn tight around his face, but the hushed undertones that accompanied whispers distraught him. Paranoia elevated—Kyle propped his right arm beneath his body, groaning as he propelled himself into an upright position.

"What time is it?" he groaned, pausing as he began to move his right arm. His forearm draped around Stan's stomach, hand curled under with his fingertips barely making contact with his tee-shirt. By instinct, he pressed into the rough cotton, the tips of his phalanges sensitive to the firm build underneath. He retracted his hand smoothly rather than a panicked jerk that he was certain Cartman would be expecting.

"Dude, you guys are sick," he murmured, shaking his head from side to side. His eyes narrowed, arms folding in front of his chest. "Who set me up?"

"Whatever do you mean, Kyle?" Cartman asked, voice elevating in pitch. Faux innocence—a trait that the boy had learned to master over the years. Kyle wished that he could say that was the only thing that bothered him about the obnoxious, overweight, prejudice ridden boy… but the task seemed unfeasible. The only ones that seemed able to put up with Cartman's jaunts were Kenny, Butters, and Craig—but Craig never seemed to give a fuck about anything.

"You know exactly what I mean, fatty," Kyle retorted.

"No set up, Dude. I saw you two looking all luv-u-luv-u and woke him up," Kenny offered as explanation.

"Shut up, Kenny! He doesn't need to know tha—ow! AY! What the hell was THAT for?" the boy's head turned to the other side of the bed. In the midst of yells, Stan had clearly woken. He sat sideways on the bed, sock-covered feet swinging inches above the floor boards and boxers crinkled from the hours accompanying sleep. A hand lifted, shoving through the unkempt hair in an automatic smoothing motion, still a section in the back part of his hair refused to sit.

"AY! I'M TALKING TO YOU!" Cartman still protested, eyes squinted into narrow darts as his hand covered his sore stomach.

"…nhn mhn fhn."

A moment of silence.

"Dude, he sounded just like Kenny!" proclaimed the heavyset boy, eyes widening in an amused fashion.

"Shut up, fat ass!" Kenny retorted. Fists swung, Cartman pleading mercy, a typical day.

"Jesus Christ guys," Kyle interrupted, readjusting his hat as he picked up the clock residing on the dresser. "It's six-thirty in the frickin' morning. Thanks a lot, Cartman."

"See this is_ exactly_ the reason why I_ hate_ having sleepovers with Jews. No matter what it is they've _always_ got to find _soooome_ reason to complain. I vote we kick Kyle out of the room. Who's with me?"

Silence. Kyle snorted.

"We're checking out of the hotel this morning, dumb ass, or did you forget?" Kyle retorted quickly. Kenny groaned, bringing a hand to his face.

"You guys, this is getting really lame. It's not funny this early in the morning."

"Shut up Ken—Stan?" in unison, both Cartman and Kyle turned to the lean figure who rose from the bed, padded across the room, then slipped into the bathroom. The click of the lock resonated in the gap of silence.

"Why're we staring at the door? Doesn't everyone piss?" Typical Kenny: loud, brash, and the perfect ice breaker. It was only mild surprise that Cartman hadn't broken the silence first but no surprise that the three would start laughing.

It was on the bus that Cartman proudly stood in the center of the aisle, hand lifted with his cell phone on display. Shots. Pictures. Photos of Kyle's arm wrapped snuggly around Stan's body, the quarterback's face buried into the pillow. Peels of laughter erupted; Stan sank lower into his seat, head turned to gaze out the window.

"Guys, we were sleeping! Not like we were conscious! You're so immature." Kyle argued brashly, eyes beaded into a fixated glare. Cartman paid no heed, passing the phone to Clyde. Hands brushed against others, laughter elevating as the object was handed from teammate to teammate.

"Kenny?" Kyle half-pleaded. His friend shrugged his shoulders, eyes faintly showing remorse.

"If it were me, you two would be doing the same as them."

Kyle knew it was true; Kenny had a point. Kenny seemed to be racking up points along all levels. He rocked back against his seat, eyes shifting to Stan. He had pulled his hat low, covering his ears as he gazed out the window.

Tree. Field. Another Tree.

"Hey… Stan, look, it's cool. They'll get over it soon enough. Before you could believe it."

"Yeah right."

"Oh, c'mon. They'll rip in on Butters soon enough. Besides, everyone knows I'm straight so it'll pass quickly."

"Heh." The faintness of a laugh cut off. Stan's finger lifted, tracing a design against the glass. "It'll get worse."

"Stop being so god damn pessimistic, Stan. I'm trying to cheer you up," Kyle argued, silenced by the phone being handed to him by said Butters.

"Gosh, this picture sure is funny, isn't it Kyle?" the boy laughed dumbly.

It was perhaps the laugh or his innocent face that set off Stan, bringing the boy to his feet as he lunged over Kyle's body and connected his knuckles with his jaw. As the back of Butter's fair head hit the window with a resounding crash, hate-filled eyes turned to said-attacker.

Stan swallowed.

"...Shit."

* * *

A/N: Thank you so much for your reviews everyone! A lot less shock-factor in this one, but fear not--more chapters on their way. Promise. :)  



	3. Wyoming is in, like, China

Disclaimer: South Park is the creation of Matt Stone and Trey Parker. Beware of hidden backwards tracks. This fan fiction is a product of watching Woodland Creature Christmas five times in a row… in April… and suffers "AU" slaughter… or what-if futurism. It should not be read by anyone who does not understand the term "AU" or "what-if". David Bowie is God. David Bowie, also, has nothing to do with this disclaimer.

And yes, I know I posted chapter three _days_ after chapter two—I was motivated by all of you to belt out the last few edits. Thank you so much for reviewing; I love hearing your feedback. Ah, also yes, there will be more lovely smut in the future.

* * *

Butters groaned, rubbing a hand over the specks in front of his eyes. A piece of gauze was held by two alien fingers underneath his nose, absorbing the salty, pungent liquid. The scent brought another string of nausea to his stomach and his hands crossed in front of his stomach with a half-whine and sniffle. He wanted to bite back the tears forming in the corners of his eyes but they leaked; small rivulets fell down the side of his cheeks, mixing with the woven threads. 

"Way to go, Marsh," Token grunted, turning his head behind his shoulder to return a heated glare to the Quarterback. "Why don't you break all of our line backers' faces in?"

The target was isolated, fist still clenched from where it made contact. His jaw was agape, lower lip quivering. "It-" Stan started, cutting himself short. "I didn't know-" No words could be said—the action had been complete. "Butters, I-"

"It… it… it's alright, S-stan," the boy stammered. The palms of his hands slid to the black floor of the bus, rubbing over the chalky substance of dust. He pressed down in an attempt to rise but Token placed a hand on his chest holding him in place.

"No, it's not." Token frowned, bringing his hand off of the smaller boy's chest when he turned his attention to the other. "Stan, you're having a lot of behavioral issues-"

"When does Stan _not_ have issues?" Kenny offered with a smile, though his enthusiasm passed the irritated expression on the captain's face.

"Look, point being, I'm Team Captain—you're star Quarterback. We need you but we _could_ find a replacement if you don't chill out. I mean, you shouldn't get so bent out of shape if we're ripping on you for something you brought upon yourself."

"Whoa, wait-" Kyle interjected in place of his muted best friend. "What exactly do you mean by 'something he brought upon himself'? We always fight—brawns over brains, that's our motto, right? What's the big deal?"

Checkmate—praise to the Debate Team's champion.

Token frowned, teeth closing over the inside of his cheek, smooth tongue running over the roof of his mouth. He was an outsider—an object as the only black student at the school. Phenomenal grammar, gifted musical abilities, and his position on the team were a guarantee into just about any college—a false move could ruin everything, labeling him. There was no answer, no way to word it.

"Just, could you please stop trying to fuck your teammates when we have games? I don't care what you do after the season so can you refrain until after the playoffs?"

Laughter.

Escalated laughter.

Stan sank into his seat, head turning to gaze out the window again. "-I didn't fuck anyone..." he mumbled, voice dropping to a nearly inaudible growl. Through the window's reflection he swore he caught sight of Craig's eye from across the aisle but when he turned around the boy was looking out the window, raising his middle finger each time a truck passed them on the right side with an amused Clyde sitting alongside him. His body jerked, eyes widening as Kyle placed a hand on his knee.

"Dude… chill, it's me," Kyle said, voice a low and monotonous rather than the higher pitched wail it usually held, though that, at times, was in conjunction with his irritation. "Look, it'll pass soon enough, especially since you're no fun to tease. Least not about this. We want a spazz… speaking of, how long has it been since someone ripped on Tweek?" Stan lifted a brow, the corners of his lips half-turning up into a smirk. Kyle won the battle—for a moment he could forget that he was the one to have punched dumb and innocent Butters though he couldn't forget that he was the one who made a move on about five teammates. Five friends, most of which, he assumed, would be former-friends. Five boys he grew up with, cornering them in the midst of post-game laughs about losing by a shorter margin each time. Boys who would never admit to what happened except for one blond boy lacking the social skills and smarts the others possessed—a boy who most likely was oblivious to the aftermath of a said confession. Boys will be boys, it was the way of the jungle—kill or be killed.

Currently, Stan was the hunted.

A short stir and few claps sounded as Butters was hauled to his feet, Token dusting off the back of his shirt and pants for him. Platonic touches, ones that Stan would brush off. He knew, though, that if he were to touch another, cries of "Fag" and "Queer" would echo, loudly called and jested through the locker room. Those who understood the platonic nature wouldn't stand for it, lest _they_ be called the accursed nickname he would come to possess.

Butters flushed, cheeks tinting a pale rose tone. "N-now, that's quite alright. It wasn't any great feat or nothin' special," he mumbled.

"It's not every day that a good chap like you gets conked on the noggin, now is it?" Pip replied, patting the seat next to him in offering. He was two seats behind and opposite the aisle to Stan and Kyle—they were two seats behind and opposite the aisle to Stan and Kyle once Butters walked the few seats back. They were odd: the people the popular kids made fun of, the people that wanted to be popular made fun of, and the people who couldn't care made fun of. This barely changed upon joining the high school football team, though a few people held Butters in higher respect, mostly to their uncanny ability to use him. Pip was another story—it seemed to easy. There was no conscience, no second thoughts. Only Pip, and his desperation to become accepted and popular.

He wouldn't become popular. He was the target for spitballs and the one they called "queer" up through middle school. The names died after they spotted him kissing Heidi by her locker in seventh grade, that or his inability to be shaken by the names. The British were tough—nothing got to them.

A bang sounded, cracking into the air followed by the screeching of tires. The bus lurched to a stop and Stan nearly lost his balance, a hand catching on the seat in front of him for support. Tweek screamed, gripping onto the blond locks of his hair as he curled into a fetal position on one of the seats.

"What the h-h-hell just h-happened?" Jimmy stuttered, rising to his feet before hobbling to the front of the bus. The piercing sound of Tweek's cries grated nerves. Stan's fingers closed, squeezing his knee as the sporadic boy's wails didn't cease.

"Jesus, Tweek, someone give you a tittie twister or something?" Cartman complained, rising from his seat. The boy followed Jimmy's slow trek, shoving a hand in the crumpled Tweek's direction before he continued toward the exit, curious as to the cause of the stop. The wailing boy's shoulders shook unrelentlessly, legs jerking to hit the seat back in front of him.

Stan turned his head to Kyle, opening his lips to retort about his being psychic about Tweek's irrational behavior when Craig rose. He stepped sideways over the front of Clyde's knees before he walked down the aisle. Coming to a stop by the side of the petrified boy's seat, he turned and squatted, extending a hand to rest on the other's legs.

"They're coming, they're going to get me!" the boy cried, voice lowering in volume. Craig replied, voice low and out of Stan's earshot. He longed to stand up and peer down at the pair but there was no point to add to the boy's terror. At least if none of the other's would.

"They just are! I know they are! Oh God," the boy stammered. Another low murmur of Craig's voice. A whisper in reply.

"WHOA! DUDES! SERIOUSLY! YOU HAVE TO SEE THIS!" Cartman shouted, rushing to the back of the bus.

"R-r-r-really now, Eric, it's not th-th-th-thhhhh…th-th-th-thhh… th-th-th…that special," Jimmy called from outside the door to the bus.

"Shut up, Jimmy! Of course it's awesome! Seriously dudes, it's AMAZING!" Cartman was relentless, and no one was picking the bait. Kyle sighed, glancing sideways at Stan before deciding to humor the other.

"Did you fart so big you blew up Yellowstone National Park?" Kyle snorted.

"No, Jew. That place is in like China," Cartman countered, bringing a hand to rub over the bridge of his nose. Kyle stared at him incredulously for a moment.

"You idiot! It's in Wyoming!"

"Kyle, listen, okay? Incase you didn't notice, Wyoming is the capital of China-"

"God, Cartman, you are so fucking Stupid!"

"Just tell us what you saw-" Kenny interrupted, tugging the drawstring to his parka a fraction tighter.

"Oh. Oh yeah. DUDES, guys! For REAL! It is by far the coolest thing that has EVER happened to us! The bus hit a _gnome_ and the front axel of the bus completely broke off!"

"For real!" Token asked, expression lighting up with excitement.

"Yeah! Like you guys have GOT to see it. I mean, the gnome is completely smushed underneath the wheel and there's blood everywhere!" Cartman's voice was cut off with another high pitched squeal.

"AHHHHHHHHHHH! I TOLD YOU! I TOLD YOU! THEY'RE AFTER ME! THEY WANT TO KILL ME! THEY'RE SENT BY THE SCANDINAVIAN GOVERNMENT TO TRY AND KILL ME! GAH! NO ONE BELIEVES ME! WHAT IF THEY KILL ME! WHAT IF NO ONE NOTICES!"

Typical Tweek.

"Thanks a lot, dick face. Now he wont shut up for at least an hour," Kevin grunted, though he made his way toward the front of the bus, anxious to see the damage.

"Get over it, spazz," Cartman jeered toward the boy though he was too consumed with his find to care. He turned his back to the group, flab jiggling as he ran to see the carnage once more.

"Damage sounds pretty bad—I hope we're not stranded here for awhile," Kyle muttered as he stepped into the aisle. Stan slid out, following the boy closely. His body lightly collided with Kyle's as he came to a stop. He turned his head, half-looking around Kyle, eyes widening.

Craig had slid onto Tweek's seat, his palm resting on the boy's back as his fingers drummed on his side. He sat next to the boy, his legs nearly entwined with the jerking boy's motions. Tweek's body quivered, eyes as wide as saucers. The whites nearly overcame the faint blue in his eyes, swallowing the water like the foam on the waves.

"Not coming?" Kyle asked, aiming the direction at Craig. The boy shrugged his shoulders.

"I'll pass. I can see road kill whenever."

"Is he going to be alright?" Kyle added. The boy lifted his free hand, middle finger elevating. His message was clear: fuck off. Kyle shrugged his shoulders, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Alright, well if you change your mind you know where we'll be."

Craig nodded his head, giving a dismissive glance in Stan's direction. Stan's brows furrowed but he said nothing, leaving the gentle murmurs and subsiding wails behind in favour of destruction.

"I won't let them kill you."

The words were so quiet and alien that Stan wasn't sure if he heard them correctly. He glanced behind his shoulder, Craig's body out of sight and the sounds reduced to a jumbled array of noise and subsiding whimpers. He was Tweek's drug.

"Stan, you coming?" Kyle asked, tugging at his best friend's sleeve as he stood on the steps to the bus, the limbo between a peaceful serene and chaotic outdoors.

He exited the bus.

* * *

So okay, having fun everyone? I certainly am. And seriously, someone needs to make fanart of Cartman's brilliant observation that Wyoming is in China. Or, you know, Craig/Stan goodness from Chapter one. Haha, I keed. I keed. Maybe. :) 


	4. Carnage and Complacency

Disclaimer: South Park is the creation of Matt Stone and Trey Parker. Beware of girls in pleated mini-skirts; you could have an accident. This fan fiction was inspired by a ferocious wedgie—to which the author hopes no one will endure—and suffers "AU" slaughter… or what-if futurism. It should not be read by anyone who does not understand the term "AU" or "what-if". Boxer-briefs are comfortable. Except when they give you a wedgie.

* * *

A thick smog rose from underneath the bus's hood, billowing into a thick trail to the skies. The axel had snapped in two, each part ignited in the small flair of flames. Hanging from the low branch of a tree was the front bumper, dangling precariously as if daring someone to walk underneath. The most prominent feature was the after-affect—the deep carnation of blood smeared from a thick circle in the center of a road to be paint-streaked to the thick residue of diced meat. It would have been indistinguishable were it not for the ripped green fabric painted for Christmas with the adorning red colours stuck to the left front wheel, and not far to its side the remains of a severed head coated with the crimson paste.

Absolute carnage—it was the only way Stan could describe the scene; absolute power would be the way Cartman would recount it. The pudgy boy's teeth glinted in the reflecting glow of the fire, face lit in wonder at its majestic destruction. The fire beckoned him, opening a gateway with its sacred gift. It was a force not many could combat, and the answer to domination. "Shweeeeeet," he murmured, lips curling up to engulf his cheeks much resembling the Cheshire Cat.

"Great, this is just great!" the bus driver complained, drawing two hands to his head. "New route, new job. Thanks a lot, South Park, Colorado." His nose wrinkled in the place of a snort. "Since there seems to be no cell phone reception, looks like I'll have walk to the nearest gas station. You'll have to fend for yourselves until then."

"I'll man the place," Cartman offered, the same sickening grin never leaving his face. "I am filled with authorit-ay." Nothing had changed through the years, not from accents to temperaments as the driver grunted walking away.

"…hey guys, I don't think it's a gnome," Clyde said, squatted near the ground as he prodded at it with a twig. "Its head is pretty big."

"Yeah, and there's all this blood," Token added, wrinkling his nose. "Smells really bad too."

"Maybe it's a midget or something," Clyde continued, poking the head. A section of the skin peeled off and he dropped the stick as he scrambled backward. "Sick."

"Hey, it does seem kind of big for a gnome," Kyle added, finally stepping close to observe the damage.

"It better not be a midget; I hate midgets," Cartman grunted. "Midgets are so creepy, especially when they do porn and like show up on Jerry Springer and have midget porn on the show and they screw up a censor bar."

"You're so full of shit, Cartman," Kyle groaned.

"Yeah—Midget porn is hot!"

The heads of everyone in the vicinity turned, eyes locking on Kenny's face. Shoulders rising along with his hands in defense, Kenny added, "What? It is. At least the one with the Midgets and Cartman's Mom."

"God damn it, Kenny! Would you shut the hell up? It's a gnome! I've seen them before."

"The ones in Tweek's room were a lot smaller," Stan stepped in, speaking for the first time since he exited the bus. "Can't we just ask him?"

"And deal with him for another hour? Real smart, Stan." Kyle sighed and rubbed a hand over his forehead. "Look, it's not even that big of a deal. I mean, we're not even betting on what it is or anything. We should be figuring out where to set up camp for the night incase the bus catches on fire or we'd die from the fumes."

"Nay-nay, Jew. I have been put in charge of this exposition and I vote that we bring Tweek out here and find out whether it's a gnome or a midget. Ten bucks on a gnome."

"Ten on midget," Token replied immediately.

"Guys, are you even listening to what I'm saying? We could _die_. I think distinguishing what the mess is under the wheel would be a great vocational hobby is we WEREN'T stranded in the middle of nowhere!" Kyle argued, hands waving to draw attention to himself.

"…can I put ten on a troll?" Clyde asked shortly followed by Kyle's scream.

"Fine. Fine, get Tweek and see if I care when we all DIE." Stan offered a smirk, lips faintly curling at the edges.

"Dude, it's cool…" Granted, the attention was off of him. Throwing slams at one's sexual preference was certainly secondary to a bet, especially when Cartman was involved. Shaking his head with accepted defeat, Kyle sighed.

"You're right, Stan. It's just that this is ridiculous. Just because they couldn't care less about sleeping on the grass doesn't mean we have to follow suit."

"Hey, it'll be like camping by Stark's Pond," Stan chimed in. Kyle blinked before his eyes widened, a smile gracing his face.

"You're right. It's been forever since we've done that. We had so many good times there."

"Yeah, like remember when Kenny got all those bottle rockets and set them off over the pond and we nearly got arrested?" Stan said quickly, a hand rubbing by the back of his neck.

"Or us roasting potato chips over the fire and nearly wiped out the forest?" Kyle added, walking toward the bus. Stan stayed by his side as they moved to the base, pulling the hinge to release the storage bin. Having been disturbed in the crash, the team's duffle bags and supply kits lay in disarray. Stan gripped onto the floor base and pulled himself in, kneeling as he pulled bag after bag toward the edge and passed them unto Kyle.

"Dude," Kyle chirped, a laugh already escaping. "Remember when we had to tell Cartman that he wasn't allowed to use the bathroom and he used poison ivy to wipe? That was sick!"

Stan couldn't hold back a full bellied laugh. He rest his palms on the base of the floor, cheeks flushed a dark shade of red.

"That was almost as funny as when he didn't cover his shit and you stepped in it!"

"Dude! That so was _not_ funny!" Kyle replied, unable to keep a straight face. He reached into the base and pulled out another bag, smiling as it held his initials on it. "Say, Stan?"

"Yeah?" the quarterback replied. He rocked forward so his knuckles were against the metal base, stance much resembling a primate. Confidence—an exerted sense of self.

"I haven't heard you laugh in a really long time."

The smile died, corners of his lips falling along with his shoulders. He rocked back until he was sitting, legs outstretched in front of him. Kyle's forehead creased, three lines forming along the surface. He pressed his hands to the base, pulling himself up into the luggage compartment. Shifting his weight, he sat next to Stan, scooting backward so they were parallel.

"I miss you." Stan's shoulders tensed. "A lot. I mean, hell, I don't know." He stalled, pulling his lower lip into his mouth. His front teeth held the lip in place refraining from grating his molars together. It was a nervous habit he picked up along the years becoming so natural that often Stan didn't notice it. But, as always, the boy sighed and relinquished his lip. "It's like you're holding back from me. Like you don't even want to be friends with me."

"Kyle, you know that's not true-"

"Is it?" he countered.

"Dude, Kyle… you're my best friend. Always. You just don't understand-"

"Then teach me."

Warmth.

Stan's head turned, lowering to where Kyle placed a bare hand over his gloved one. It was difficult to refrain from touch sometimes, and sometimes it was difficult to tolerate it. Stan sighed reluctantly and pulled one knee up toward his chest.

"Try to think of it this way. Your whole life you grow up puking on anything that grossed you out—your girlfriend, perfume, hospitals, blood wounds, old people, lesbians, gay cowboys eating pudding—hey, maybe that was the prerequisite to Brokeback Mountain. Well, whatever. I mean, you live in irrational fear and get harassed constantly for it. You end up liking cock. It's fucking weird." Kyle's head nodded attentively.

"You don't like being gay?"

"Not if you guys keep treating me like I'm so different than everyone." Stan rubbed his free hand over the top of his knee. "I mean… it was cool when I told you. You know, before this whole mess happened."

"Yeah, I remember you said I was the first you told. That was about two years ago, wasn't it?" Kyle added, turning his body. He sat cross-legged, hands moving to knit together and rest just over the sides of his hiking boots.

"I guess. Well, and Kenny found out but he doesn't rat so it was cool." Stan frowned and drew his arms around his other knee, pulling both to his chest. "I made a mistake when I hit on Butters."

"Butters?" Kyle snorted as he tried to refrain from laughing. "Why the hell would you hit on _him_ of all people?"

"Shut up, dude. I mean…" he frowned. "I don't know. I wasn't thinking. I guess I thought he'd be easy—probably I deserved what I got." As Kyle's brow quirked, he quickly added, "Rejection." No questions would be asked—nothing would be inquired about anyone else. The incident with Craig would be left in the dark; it would be taken to both of their graves.

"Did you try with any of the others?" Kyle tested, hedging. Stan's lips moved, circulating in an awkward motion. His tongue rubbed the roof of his mouth.

"…no."

Kyle sighed but said nothing. The answer was obvious.

"Did you… you know?"

_"Don't you know what you did?"_ Stan's eyes squeezed shut. The hold on his knees tightened, head ducking to hide. _"Roll over."_ His breath caught, body stiffening.

"Stan?" Kyle asked, extending a hand to grip on the boy's shoulder.

_Stan's eyes closed and he reluctantly obeyed, fingers gripping the bed as his boxers were yanked off. The corner of a pillow was shoved into his mouth. Craig's right hand pressed hard in between the quarterback's shoulder blades holding him flat against the mattress; his left hand tore a wrapper open. After a moment, he leg go, hands gripping onto the boy's hips, slamming an endowed length inside without so much a simple preparation. Stan screamed, muted by the thickness of the pillow as the slams came harder and faster, skin slapping against skin. He felt something tear, a wet heat, before Craig groaned and pulled out. _

"Stan!"

_The condom was unpeeled and thrown in the trash can. "Get a shower and sleep on the floor."_

"What's it to you!" Stan replied, eyes widening. His chest rose and fell quickly, eyes squeezing shut. His body stiffened, feeling the surrounding warmth and pressure of two arms wrapping around his shoulders. He turned his body, allowing a hand to lift and grip Kyle's coat, head resting against his shoulder.

"Shh… it's okay. I'm sorry. Look, you don't have to tell me. Okay, Stan? I just want to hear you laugh again," Kyle murmured, a hand lifting to sift through the few black hairs that poked out from beneath his hat. Stan shook his head, eyes squeezed shut.

"Hey guys?" Both boys lifted their heads, turning to face the soft-spoken Kenny. Stan's body stiffened but Kyle remained, arms wrapped protectively around the boy.

"What's up, Kenny?"

"I was just wondering if you guys wanted to come. Craig's bringing Tweek out of the bus and we're going to see if he can identify what we killed then make a bon fire and see if the mess is edible, but if you two want to keep making out that's cool by me." He offered a friendly smile, though hidden by the closed fabric around his face. Kyle snorted, laughing as he kicked a leg out at the boy.

"Sure, we'll be out once we finish with the bags," he replied. He clapped Stan on the back then pulled from him, crawling on his hands and knees to pull the few remaining duffle bags from the back of the compartment. With Kenny lifting each bag down and both Kyle and Stan tugging the bags, the bin lay empty within two minutes.

"OH JESUS, THIS IS TOO MUCH PRESSURE!"

"Come on," Kenny urged, putting an arm around both Kyle and Stan's shoulders as they hopped down from the bus. "The entertainment is just about to begin."

* * *

Howdie-ho everyone! Still having as much fun as I am? You reviewers are simply wonderful; you're what keep me going. Thank you. 

As you could see, this chapter is another return to the utter creepiness of the story. Plus carnage. Hope you enjoyed and I'll be looking forward to Chapter 5.


	5. No Offense, Stanley, but that's Gay

Disclaimer: South Park is the creation of Matt Stone and Trey Parker. I survived the outage--did you? This fan fiction is a product of watching too many episodes in the span of three days and suffers "AU" slaughter. It should not be read by anyone who does not understand the term "AU". I'm CEREAL!11oneonelollerskates

Ah, yes. Continue? Good.

* * *

Tweek's eyes blinked in rapid succession, pupils darting to the slain flesh. The disarray in his hair seemed to reflect the destruction that lay before him. Stan, Kyle, and Kenny approached only to join the demi-circle formed behind the one frail boy. They were outsiders, observant to the world of chaotic aftermath inside a self-constructed snow globe. The insider was deaf and dumb to the watchers as he took a step closer. 

His hear jerked to the side, hands continuously trembling though his arms rest quietly along his sides. Knees buckling, he fell to the ground—a choked cry escaping the back of his throat.

"Dude, is he okay?" Kyle asked, quirking a brow as he observed. He stepped closer, the globe becoming smaller as the movement drew the other teammates in. Tweek's hair was a reflection of the sun; the outsiders were none other than planets, satellites, ad rockets orbiting the source, tugged closer by the thread of gravitation.

"Man, this is taking forever. I'm bored," Stan muttered, sweet tenor nasal with annoyance. Cartman rolled his eyes, arms crossing in front of his chest.

"Stan, listen, okay? You need to take that butt plug out of your ass and respect my authoritay!"

The boys snickered, save for Stan's bemused expression. He stalled, eyes shifting from side to side before his face lit up.

"What? That would put anyone in a _good_ mood, not a bad one—I asked your mom about it last Thursday." Stan started to laugh expecting the others to join him though he was greeted by silence. The eyes of the boys burned into his side. "Dude… it was a joke-" he continued, laughter dying as it lost vigor, face contorting.

"Fag," Clyde said plainly, turning his head to watch Tweek again.

"A joke, guys! A joke!" Stan protested, voice shrill as his hands began to wave in rapid jerks.

"Well, gee Stan… didn't Token say that you should wait until after our playoffs to make lewd comments?" Butters addressed, oblivious to the boys' laughter, as if he had forgotten that Stan had punched him in the face not even a few hours ago.

"Wait-what? Guys! We joke like this all the time! It was a rip on Cartman's mom-"

"No offense, Stanley," Pip interjected. "-but that's pretty_ gay_."

"What?" Stan's voice cracked into a squeak.

"It's simply not funny if you're gay. It's like Token making a Black joke or Kyle making a Jew joke."

"Dude! That's like, backward! You shouldn't make fun of other people-"

"But you do it all the time, don't you?" Pip asked, hands locking together as his fingers interlaced.

"Guys-" Stan protested though he wasn't heard.

Tweek rose to his feet, skin a yellowing tint. His hands still trembled, moving in front of his stomach as if to compress it from nausea. His left eye blinked in sporadic twitches, body convulsing.

"Jesus Christ, it took you long enough," Cartman complained, rubbing his hands together. "So, what is it? A gnome right?"

The blond's teeth grated against each other, grinding bits of bone apart. "…I don't know."

"You WHAT?" Cartman snapped. The boy's eyes shot open further and his hands moved to his hair.

"I don't know! I DON'T KNOW! I've never seen anything like that! It's too big for the Scandinavian Gnomes unless they're doing new genetic research and—OH GOD! THAT'S IT! THEY'RE COMING TO KILL ME!" His breath came quickly and he ran forward, trying to shove through the group though Token and Craig gripped onto his shoulders holding him in place.

"Whoa, easy, Tweek. Easy," Token comforted. "_It's_ not out to kill you because it's _dead_."

"That's the thing!" he protested, voice now a hushed whisper. "They die… you think they're dead and you're safe for the time being. Then, when they notice that one's dead they send another three days later… and then another… and another. One by one we'll be picked off until we're destroyed."

"Tweek, our bus just broke down. Surely we wont even _be_ here more than a day," Token tried to reason. "Besides, you have all of us here. And Craig. I don't think anyone would want to fuck with him." Hearing the faint mention of his name, the boy lifted up a hand in salute to the skies. His middle finger pivoted, eyes narrowed at Token.

The boy still persisted, head shaking from side to side. "Gah! Er! No one… no one believes me. Just… you guys think I'm crazy. I'll prove it to you. But by then one of us will be dead!" His nose wrinkled before released, head jerking to the other side.

Cartman's hands moved to his hips as he moved, halting only inches in front of the blond. "Tweek, I'm giving you to the count of five to tell us that it was a gnome under the wheel."

"What? Cartman, that's cheating!" Clyde chimed in.

"It is _not_."

"Is _too._"

"AY! RESPECT MAH AUTHORITAY!"

Another typical fight. No matter the circumstance, it always seemed that Cartman couldn't stay out of trouble. He seemed to relish in the arguments, perhaps knowing that otherwise he would be ignored. He would always be the hated, manipulative fat kid—never the weak.

"Fellows, please!" Pip interrupted, stepping in between Clyde and Cartman. Tweek took the opportunity to duck and sprint, pulling away from the surrounding teammates. He stopped by Kenny, breath rising and falling in quick heaves. "We really should be figuring out a way to set camp—it's getting dark and who knows when help will arrive."

"He's right," Token sighed. He turned his back to the now-smoldering flesh as it burned and absorbed the fumes from the crash. "Everyone, get your things. We'll form a ground right here-" He started to walk a perimeter approximately twenty feet from the side of the bus. "Incase it falls, we'll be in the clear. We'll also be able to use the bus as a windshield. Who can start a fire?"

"AY! Token, in case you weren't _listening_, I was assigned to lead everyone through this expedition-" Cartman countered. Token barely lifted a brow before his shoulders shrugged.

"As I was saying, who can start a fire?"

"Damn it, sonuvabitch," Cartman mumbled, reluctantly conceding.

"Man, getting stranded really sucks," Kyle complained, turning his back to the group. "I'm starving—you guys want any Challah Rolls?"

"ACK!"

"Oh… forgot you were here, Tweek. You can come too, I guess," Kyle mumbled, certainly less enthused.

"Free food? I'm in," Kenny chirped, patting Kyle on the back. Stan glanced at the trio before turning back toward the group. Token was trying to coax a seemingly reluctant Craig into retrieving firewood to start the bonfire while Cartman spewed out every reason for him _not_ to most likely for the sake of irritating the team captain. Stan wasn't sure if he would be able to predict the outcome.

"Stan? Earth to Stan! Come in, Marsh!" Kenny moved a hand in front of the boy's head until he jerked, snapping back to the present. "Dude, what bug crawled up _your_ ass?" he asked. "I mean, seriously. You and Kyle are _cute_."

"Whoa, wait, cute? Huh? Where'd that come from?" Kyle's eyebrows lifted only to hide under the brim of his hat. "Dude, sick, Kenny. He's my best friend," he interjected, arms folding in front of his chest.

"Best friends who wake up in each other's arms that I found in the storage-"

"ARG! ACK! Then how come people aren't making fun of Kyle for gah! You know," Tweek interrupted. Shoulders shaking, the boy moved closer to Kenny's side.

"Because Stan's a fag?"

"Kenny!" Stan's eyes widened in protest. "You're supposed to be _my_ friend!" The boy shrugged his shoulders, eyes twinkling mischievously.

"Patience," he murmured, the mumble barely audible underneath the parka.

"Well, come on, guys. I'm starving and I sure as fuck don't want to have to share with Cartman." Kyle's hands rubbed together as he began to walk, legs swinging in long, slow strides. His shoulders were stiff, body mechanical. A diversion--a refusal to play in Kenny's game of "Who's Gay?" or "Aren't you cute?"

Tweek sprinted from Stan and Kenny to catch up with the disappearing Jew.

"Don't you dare take my portion!" Kenny was quick to reply, taking off at a faster run. Stan observed them quietly, hands shifting in his pocket before he picked up a slow lope to catch up hearing, "AY! Craig! Don't flip me off!" in the background.

* * *

A/N: Woohoo. That chapter was certainly a lot of fun to write. Seems to be a mystery as to that lovely rotten carcass, huh? More of that coming up. I especially liked the Token and Cartman interaction, as well as Kenny's involvement in this one. 

**Also, I recieved FanArt!** I'm CEREAL! I inspired someone! I'm so stoked! The artist requested they stay anonymous due to Internet Shyness so with permission I've uploaded it to my photobucket. Check out my Author Bio page for the Link:)


	6. Prematurity Happens

Disclaimer: South Park is the creation of Matt Stone and Trey Parker. Beware of Boogiemen. The plot may have the potential to endure "AU" slaughter… or what-if futurism. It should not be read by anyone who does not understand the term "AU" or "what-if". "Rock the Cashbah" was a Great Clash song. It was also covered by the Solar Twins. Neither band have anything to do with this disclaimer or and unusual craving for macaroni and cheese.

* * *

Stan, Kyle, Kenny, and Tweek sat on the ground behind the broken bus after Kyle retrieved four of the Jewish treats. Dolling one to each, he promised that there would be more for later when they were starving. Kenny flipped back the hood of his parka before his mouth greedily closed over the delight, loudly chomping at the morsels. Home baked goods were a royalty beating his family's consistent meals of canned vegetables, frozen waffles, and condiments that Kenny stole from the team's hotel rooms _if_ he got there before Cartman. Kenny couldn't remember ever turning down a meal or any offering of food—he never knew when the next time he would eat a full meal would be.

Tweek sat to Kenny's right, hands shaking so violently that he was barely able to bring the food to his lips. He chewed quickly, teeth chattering as he moistened the morsels on his tongue then swallowed. His eyes shifted from boy to boy, swallowing anxiously in anticipation—anticipation for what other than the flock of vengeful, mutant gnomes plotting the slow destruction and demise of the football team. Darwin's Theory of Evolution—only the strong would survive. He shook his head, extending the treat to the orange hooded boy as his shoulders jerked. "C-can't. No more." Kenny barely nodded his head in acknowledgement let alone give thanks as his hand snaked out over the pastry, closed his fingers over the treat, then devoured it in a few quick bites.

"You really do eat anything," Kyle murmured, shaking his head with mild amazement. Growing up with Kenny had given the boys immunity to his antics and survival codes. The quad turned their heads in near unison as several hoots and hollers sounded accompanied by the thick scent of burning wood and smoke.

"Bonfire's made," Stan murmured absently. He rose to his feet, hands brushing the front of his jeans off before his hands slid into the back pockets of his jeans. Without waiting for the other three, he stalked toward the commotion. Greeted by the warm, amber glow of the raging fire, Stan walked around it twice before settling himself on a trunk of a clearly cut tree. The slain plant lay a few feet from the base of the fire, the base splintered from where it had been unceremoniously hacked at until it plummeted to its early demise. Clearly the tree slayer had been lazy as the branches and foliage still remained near the top.

Stan extended his hands toward the flames, stretching his legs in front of him to absorb the heat as the boys began to pillage their things, assembling themselves on the logs-benches. The trio Stan left behind came shortly, sitting on one of the trunks across from Stan; the quarterback was certain they were giving him his space.

Oblivious to any premeditative stares he was giving, he was startled as Clyde sat beside him, stocky arm brushing past his shoulder as he sat. "Craig knows his timber," the boy said absently, inclining his torso forward toward the warmth. "We got the fire going within three minutes."

"Sorry I didn't help with that," Stan replied, shoulders shrugging as he side-glanced toward the other male. He noticed the other wore sweaters constantly, most likely to hide the extra bulk. Sensitive about his weight, he went at great lengths to hide his physique—Stan couldn't remember a time when Clyde ever ate anything unhealthy. Genetics, slow metabolism, he made excuses the night they stayed in the same hotel room. Stan hadn't noticed, until the boy asked if he was crushing him while he straddled the other's waist.

Clyde wasn't quite like the bulk of the students at South Park—he was virtuous, humble even. Kind.

Stan's eyes shifted to the side as Clyde drew the heel of his boot against Stan's sneaker, tapping it three times. Returning his eyes to the fire, Stan drew his heel to the side, colliding against the thicker canvas in the same repetition. The heavier boy rose, making a gesture of getting water while he walked away from the fire only to disappear behind the yellow siding of the broken bus. Stan hadn't waited for him to completely disappear before he followed. Meeting the other on the hidden side, both walked toward the thickness and darkness of wood. Encased in blackness, Stan felt two hands move to his waist, circling around the small of his back.

"Say it," Clyde whispered, short plea evident by the tone of his strained voice. "The way you said it before." The black-haired boy smiled, blindly inclining his head forward before his teeth grazed over Clyde's thick scarf masking his slightly protruding jugular vein.

"I can make you feel good, better than anyone. Our secret. We wont talk." His teeth closed over the fabric and he tugged his head back. The fabric pulled loose, exposing tender, untouched skin. Stan's head lowered, teeth sinking over the skin as he suckled it back. Clyde's head tilted back, an unceremonious short moan surfacing from the back of his throat while he clawed at the clasp to his belt. Stan released his hold, by instinct sliding down. Expectancy. Ability to deliver.

Five minutes.

Clyde apologized as he brushed a thumb by the side of Stan's face before he zipped his fly again. Readjusting his scarf, he glanced to the side.

"Are you upset?"

"It happens," Stan murmured. "Compliments to me, I guess." The boy turned to walk back but stopped as he didn't hear accompanying footsteps. "Waiting for Manbearpig or Tweek's mutant gnomes?"

"Was I bad?"

"Huh?" the boy turned around, jaw slacking slightly.

"You've been with other guys before… was I bad?" Clyde mumbled. Again with self-consciousness—the boy never seemed to let it drop.

"You're fine. Sometimes people get off a little too soon is all. Or you were thinking of someone else."

The boy rubbed his hands together unsatisfied with the answer. "Who'd you hook up with on the team?"

_Stan's eyes closed and he reluctantly obeyed, fingers gripping the bed as his boxers were yanked off. The corner of a pillow was shoved into his mouth. Craig's right hand pressed hard in between the quarterback's shoulder blades holding him flat against the mattress; his left hand tore a wrapper open. After a moment, he leg go, hands gripping onto the boy's hips, slamming an endowed length inside without so much a simple preparation. Stan screamed, muted by the thickness of the pillow as the slams came harder and faster, skin slapping against skin. He felt something tear, a wet heat, before Craig groaned and pulled out._

"I can't say," he replied hoarsely. The leaves crackled under his feet as he took a step backward.

_"Roll over."_

Clyde didn't answer but he nodded his head. He took a few steps forward then past Stan, slowing so the other would keep pace on their return. "You know why Craig beat you up, right?"

Stan said nothing, head locked forward as each leg moved in rapid progression.

"Craig told me. It's okay-"

"Do you want me to tell you off or something?" Stan snapped. The other boy fell silent and the quarterback sighed with audible relief.

Not another word was exchanged as they returned toward their companions by the fire and, once they reached the amiable commotion, both turned separate ways.

* * *

A/N: Thank you for sticking with me, readers! I adore all of you and your reviews--thank you!

Not sure if anyone can tell, but I absolutely loved this chapter (and I swear that it wasn't just for shy and stammering Clyde though I might have forgotten my Miranda Rights on that one). Needless to say, lots of cute and the stage is set for our next installment. I'm sure many of you are wondering "Is there going to be Stan/Kyle? What's going to happen after three days have passed! Why did Craig beat up Stan? What's for Lunch? What about the Mutant Gnomes? And when are they gonna kill Kenny?"

...oops.

Stay tuned--next installment on its way!


	7. The Wrong Answer

Disclaimer: South Park is the creation of Matt Stone and Trey Parker. Beware of hidden God-like messages. This fan fiction is a product of watching too many episodes in the span of three days and suffers "AU" slaughter. It should not be read by anyone who does not understand the term "AU". Hail Jesus. Jesus, also, has EVERYTHING to do with this disclaimer. Jesus says send fanart and doughnuts to the author. PS. Jesus says Reviews Love You.

Let's begin, shall we?

* * *

The commotion that came hand-in-hand with the bonfire was quick to die down, leaving the team to reside in an abnormal, awkward silence save for the sounds of the night and crackling fire. Butters, the ever optimistic one of the bunch, was the first to break it.

"Well, say fellows," he began, rubbing his hands together for warmth. "Why don't we play a game or somethin'?"

"Like what, Butters?" Cartman grunted, voice thickened with feign interest. "There aren't any girls here to play stupid kissing games with, oh, except for Stan."

"Fuck you, fat ass!" the target retorted sharply, folding his arms in front of his stomach.

"No thanks, fag," Cartman replied, again with a grunt as his hands laced together.

"Aw shucks, fellas," Jimmy stuttered, trying to bring Butters' idea back to life. "I would have though that a g-game would be f-f-fuuuuu… f-f-fuuuu… f-f-"

"But what kind of game could be fun?" Token interrupted inquisitively. "I mean, most sleepovers are for chicks, right?"

"Not necessarily, Token. You s-s-see, I play Truth or Dare all the time with Craig and Clyde," Jimmy supplied. "And it doesn't seem so ef-ef-ef-effemin—eff—effeminate to me."

"To you? You weren't the one dared to take off all your clothes save for a sombrero and do the Mexican Hat Dance on webcam with Red!" Clyde whined loudly, hands rising above his head in protest though they lowered to retie his scarf. Craig didn't refrain from snickering, only spurring Clyde's neuroticism. "It wasn't funny!"

"Sure it wasn't, Pedro," Craig retorted, teeth glinting in a smile as Clyde drew an elbow out in a weak attempt to shove him off of the large tree trunk they were sitting upon.

"I'm game for it," Craig continued. "You have to be a _real man_ to play Truth or Dare."

"Gah! No way!" Tweek interjected. "That is _way_ too much pressure! You have to decide which you choose then GAH! No way!"

"Simmer down, Tweek," Craig replied, voice calmer and quieter. "You can always choose truth. Then all you have to do is answer a question."

"GAH! ARE YOU KIDDING ME? WHAT IF I GET THE WRONG ANSWER?"

Silence.

More silence.

"Um, Tweek, dear chap," Pip said, laughing anxiously. "There aren't wrong answers when you choose Truth. You just have to reply. It's awfully fun."

"Now, I'm not sure about this, fellows-" Butters started, shaking his head slightly. "The last time I played Truth or Dare my parents found out that I was dared to touch Wendy's hooters and I got grounded." Another silence. A short gasp. Stan's jaw slacked.

"Dude! You groped my ex-girlfriend?" he protested loudly.

"Well, not exactly. I mean, you two were still together 'n all-" before Butters could even finish his sentence, laughter escalated through the group.

"Wendy cheated on me with _you_?" Disbelief was plastered to the boy's face before it morphed to the flushed cheeks associated with anger. Kenny gripped onto his sides, body rocking sideways to rest against Cartman's shoulder as the boy spouted milk from his nose.

"Oh God, buhahahaha! Stan, you fucking homo! Wendy chose Butters over you! HAHAHA!"

"Hey, knock it off, fat ass," Kyle defended. "Truth or Dare is the lamest game ever made, anyway."

"Oh yeah?" Cartman retorted. "I didn't realize that Jews were also chickens."

"Shut up, fat ass! We are not!"

"It's true-" Cartman jided. "You're afraid of getting dared. You're afraid of what could happen to you, isn't that right?"

"Knock it off, Cartman," Kyle growled throatily.

"Why?" he replied simply. "It's because I'm right. You Jews are all the same—able to dish it out but can't take the pressure. What are you gonna do, Kyle? You gonna prove Mel Gibson wrong?"

The red-haired boy's eyes narrowed into small darts, inner fire blazing.

"I chose 'dare,' fat ass." The growl remained in his throat, bordering on a snarl. "Give it your best shot." Cartman's eyes widened at the ludicrous claim before he smirked.

"Alright, Kyle," he started slowly, enunciating each syllable.

"Kyle, you sure you want to go through with this?" Stan questioned.

"Yeah, it'll shut him up for a bit," the boy retorted.

"Kyle!" Cartman snapped, trying to draw his attention again. Once the red-head boy's face turned toward his, he continued. "I dare you to go down on-"

"NO!" Kyle glanced at Stan, a bit shocked at the boy's outburst that edged out his own.

"-on Clyde," Cartman finished.

"Wait—what?" Stan blinked then shook his head. He was hearing things. He had to. Clyde? Clyde Donovan? Not himself, the outed queer on the football team? Nothing seemed feasible. Cartman always ripped on him and Kyle, unless…

"DUDE! SICK!" Kyle squealed, gripping onto his stomach.

His eyes shifted to Clyde.

"YOU WANT ME TO BLOW HIM?"

Not even an hour before.

"I'D RATHER EAT ROAD KILL THAN SEE A GUY'S DICK!"

Rejection. Left overs. Moving on.

"Bastard-" Stan hissed, ignoring the side-glance Kenny gave him.

"Y-you can't do that to me!" Clyde protested shrilly, balling his fists. "I don't consent!"

"Whatever Clyde. It _has_ to be you."

"I'm STRAIGHT!" Kyle protested louder.

"I can't do this!" Clyde shrieked.

"It's a fucking dare—get over it," Cartman said, rolling his eyes. "Stop being such a goddamn pussy, Clyde."

"I don't want to do this! You can't make me!" Clyde's eyes glistened with the prerequisite of tears.

"What are you going to do, Clyde? Cry for your mommy like you always do? Your mommy isn't here, is she?" the boy drawled.

"That's enough, Cartman-" Craig interrupted, placing a hand on Clyde's shoulder. "Just get it over with quickly, okay bud?"

Stan quirked a brow. No raised middle fingers. No death threats. _Don't fuck with my friends_. It didn't make sense. Why was he perceived so differently than Kyle, or anyone else for that matter?

Stan's heart rate quickened as Kyle grudgingly stood up. "I hate you so much, Cartman. I hope you burn in hell."

"Yeah, yeah. Stupid Jew. I'm going to Heaven," he snorted. "Get to it."

Kyle sighed as he trudged to the other side of the bonfire. Clyde, reluctantly, unbuckled his belt and slid his fly down before he slid a hand inside, reaching for the prize. Stan's eyes moved to Clyde's face then drooped to the scarf before his head turned to the side at Cartman.

"You knew-" he whispered fiercely. A wry smile played on Cartman's lips.

"You fags were gone for a long time. I want to see _you_ miserable, Stan. I hate you so much. Almost as much as I hate Kyle."

"Why are you doing this to me?" he whispered back.

"Because I want to see you cry."

The answer was so simple, so plain.

"Dude, that's pretty harsh," Kenny mumbled.

Stan watched Kyle's back as he sank to his knees.

"Do I look like I care?" Cartman replied, arms folding over his chest.

Clyde's hands rest on the other's shoulders.

"_KYLE!"_

When Stan's eyes opened, he discovered that he was lying on his back. Kyle, Pip, Tweek and Token loomed over him, eyes beaded in worried concentration.

"Nhn, what happened?" Stan asked groggily.

"You just started to puke or something. Then you fainted," Token said, shaking his head. "I've never seen anything like it."

"GAH! You freaked us out, man!" Tweek jittered, eyes shifting toward Pip. The blond, British boy nodded his head once.

"Indeed. We were awfully worried about you. You were unconscious for quite a few minutes-"

"Did you do it?"

Stan's interruption was abrupt and three of the four surrounding boys took their cue to leave. Kyle shoved his hands in the back pockets of his slacks.

"Did you?" the boy repeated.

Another silence.

"…you did." Stan's eyes fell shut for a brief moment, opening only when he sat upright and rose to his feet. "I hate that."

"Stan?" Kyle asked gently.

"Forget it," he said sharply, walking toward the fallen tree trunk Kenny sat on. He allowed his body to fall on it, arms folding over his stomach as he gazed into the fire.

"You okay?" Kenny asked softly.

"Leave me alone," the Quarterback retorted. He stared at the fire, the red emblems glittering in the corners of his eyes while he rocked back and forth. The sensation of someone sitting next to him became present but he wasn't aware of the gesture. His shoulders flinched as the heavy weight rest over them.

"It's not like you, Stan," Kyle said softly, melancholy tinting his voice. "It's not like you at all. I don't get it."

"Could you love me?" the boy asked, rocking his weight forward to press into his toes. Silence. A mark of deliberation. "That's why you can't," he replied softly. "That's why."

* * *

A/N: Alright everyone! Another chapter down and now we start to see why it was crucial for Stan and Clyde's "Hubba Hubba" moment in the previous chapter. The sensation of unrequited love, just... ahh. Tragic Kingdom--wait, no, that was the last decent No Doubt album. DAMN YOU, GWEN STEFANI! DAMN YOU!

But yes, a lot of favourite parts in here so I'm not going to list them all. Though, one that stands out is Tweek's "incorrect answer" in Truth or Dare.

Having fun with all of you. And Clyde's Sombrero Wants your Mom.


	8. Ready for the Watch

Disclaimer: THEY GOT ME! THOSE DAMN SKEKSES! MY EYES! MY HANDS! …okay. Maybe that's still not a good enough excuse to gain rights to South Park, but allow me the liberty of trying.

Let's begin.

* * *

Upon settling in for the night, the football team declared that a few select groups would alternate keeping watch for the night. It wasn't so much a suggestion, but a demand. No one could exactly say what the reason was for keeping guard other than to somewhat soothe the nerves of the paranoid Tweek for their own benefit of sleep, but the vote was unanimous: there would be teams watching, and they would start with Butters.

The blond rubbed his hands together, reluctantly conceding to his fate of keeping the first four hour block. To follow, he would wake up Pip for the next four hours. Pip would then wake up Butters again to keep guard until all the boys rose in the daylight hours.

The plan seemed perfect until Tweek yelled that he would stay up, not trusting Butters to keep guard. Token rubbed a hand over his forehead in a brief contemplation before Craig's hand rose. With fairly little planning, and short consultation, it was declared that Tweek and Craig would stay up for the first three hours, Butters would keep guard the second three hours, and Pip would take control for the last three hours before waking the group and, should the team wish to sleep more, they would take turns throwing their shoes at the boy and call him a "damn Frenchie."

The bulk of the team moved alongside their broken bus, grabbing what few clothes they had to use as blankets and pillows from the leaf-coated ground. Stan had barely set his things down when Cartman expressed his distaste for bunking too close to their "faggy friend." The shortness of a scuffle occurred followed by flying fists and swinging legs. Kyle pulled Stan away while Kenny, Token, and Clyde gripped onto Cartman's arms in a feeble attempt to pull him backward. It took a quick mediation from Jimmy, his stuttering distracting the group long enough to calm both boys' nerves, before the order was given for Cartman to sleep on one side of the bus and Stan at the other.

"You really need to tone it down when picking a fight with Cartman," Kyle murmured as he turned to face the boy. Both hands were placed on his shoulders bidding his friend to sit. Submissively, Stan lowered, legs folding Indian style as Kyle stooped before him, rummaging through his backpack for a Kleenex. "I mean, I hate the fat ass probably more than you, but he plays dirty. He'd be the type to kill you in your sleep."

"I know, just-" Stan frowned, eyes falling shut as the other pressed the white cotton to his lower lip wiping the few traces of brittle, dried blood, "-just… everyone was cool with it before. I mean, seriously. I have so much dirt on them—_all _of them. It's like they're pretending it never happened or something."

"I guess. I don't know what to tell you, Stan," Kyle murmured, sighing as he folded the Kleenex over and pressed it to Stan's temple. "…you're not mad at me about the dare, are you?"

"Huh?" Stan replied, jarred from his reflection.

"The dare. I mean, when I was supposed to… you know… with Clyde-"

"Oh. That."

Silence.

Awkward shifting.

A lowered head.

"I was pissed at Cartman," he replied honestly. "Really pissed. It was meant for me." Upon the quirked eyebrow his best friend gave the boy, he quickly corrected himself. "I mean, it was meant to irritate me. Hurt me, whatever. God, that sounded emo."

"Ha, we always knew you were an emo kid," Kyle teased, lowering the hand with the tissue to bat at the boy's ear once. He crumpled the felt-toned paper in his palm along with the red flakes speckling its surface before shoving it in the smallest compartment of his backpack to accompany the other mounds of junk he acquired throughout the season—better not to litter even if it required the manifestation of mutant mold. A smile played on his lips before his head shook from side to side. "Look, it's okay. I mean, if you're mad at me it's fine."

"Kyle…" the boy murmured, face lifting slightly.

"Let's get some shut eye—it might take awhile to fall asleep."

A suggestion.

Case-closed.

Diversion.

Acceptance.

It was okay.

* * *

A/N: Short chapter--I know. Why, might you ask, didn't I write more for this one? One answer: the next chapter MUST be a stand-alone. I've tried to blend the two together--no such luck. It just doesn't work. :) But anyway, I hope you enjoyed this part (I know there must be some Fluff fans out there!) and stay tuned for the next.   



	9. The First Slaughter

Disclaimer: South Park is the creation of Matt Stone and Trey Parker. Beware of hidden Budda-esque messages. This fan fiction may suffer slaughtering. Literally. It should not be read by anyone who does not understand the term "AU". Peace be with you. Meditating is the key to writing. Buddha says to become a better person, you should review. PS. Buddha says he didn't really say that and that the author should fess up.

…blame this disclaimer on Samuel L. Jackson.

Let's begin, shall we?

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4:03 AM.

The first scream sounded.

Encased by blackness, the team members rose to their feet, series of cries and wails accompanying blind movement. A second scream sounded merging into a shrill whistle. The boys fumbled for flashlights, trying to move closer to the fire's light.

"What the hell's going on?" Token started, voice strong and insistent. His flashlight rotated lighting up each player in succession. Turning his body, the spotlight fell upon Tweek. The boy stood separate from the group, screams refusing to cease as he trembled. "Tweek? Tweek, dude, _chill_."

Stan glanced at Kyle before tugging upon his shoulder. The nerve ate at his stomach, a sickly odor filling his nostrils. A prophecy unfulfilled.

Upon reaching the blond's back, his horror was warranted.

"Oh my God, they killed Kenny," Stan spluttered.

Flashlights turned to the source as the team assembled behind the screaming boy. The visage was horrendous. The boy's orange parka had been stained with blood. A gaping hole lay in his side, trails of intestine pulled from his body. Putrid stomach bile stained the ground by crushed legs. His head had been severed. Token's flashlight moved along the ground following a freshly made trail of blood over the crushed leaves. The trail wound to the broken bus; the mutilated head wedged beneath the front right axel. Eyes had been severed from their sockets; his mouth gaping wide in a scream for help; his blond hair matted with blood.

"You bastards," Kyle whispered.

The resounding retching and lurching noises of vomit followed. Cartman stood to the side, hands gripping on his knees as his insides expelled. He lurched again and again, a continuous rebel until he dry heaved. "K-Kenny," he choked in between heavy breaths. Acidic tears stung the corneas of his eyes as he mourned. Heads hung, fingers weaved together.

"Kenny!" the boy screamed again. "GOD DAMN IT, KENNY!" The boy pulled to his feet, staggering as he ran to the severed head. His hands closed in the blond mass as he tugged at it. "KENNY! KENNY, WAKE UP YOU SON OF A BITCH! KENNY! GOD DAMN IT, KENNY!"

"Cartman! Dude, you need to mellow out-" Stan started, voice hitching in the middle.

"KENNY! KENNY!"

"Kenny's… gone…" Kyle murmured. He glanced at Stan before his head turned, eyes softening. Their quad was broken.

Both boys approached their wailing friend. The raven-haired boy extended a hand forth, fingers brushing along the back of his shoulder. "W-We'll all m-m-miss him."

"GET THE FUCK OFF ME, YOU FUCKING FAGGOT!" the boy snapped, respective arm swinging back as he knocked Stan's leg. The boy stumbled backward, the whites in his eyes expanding as blood absorbed into his jeans.

"Oh Jesus…"

"Cartman-" Kyle started.

"SHUT UP! SHUT UP, YOU FUCKING JEW! YOU HAVE NO IDEA! NO IDEA AT ALL! NONE OF YOU! YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW I FEEL SO DON'T EVEN TRY TO USE THAT BULLSHIT TO CONSOLE ME, YOU FUCKING—FUCKING-" the boy's walls broke as he rose to his feet, eyes narrowing into vengeful slits. "Tweek…"

The blond boy stood, legs quaking as his screams persisted.

"TWEEK, YOU PIECE OF SHIT!" The obese boy lunged forth, shoving through the gathered students as wide, bloodied hands encircled the boy's throat. The crimson tone melted unto the boy's throat as his windpipes closed, scream silenced through a lack of air.

"LET HIM GO!" Craig screamed, the first to bring a fist back and send it into Cartman's side. "Tweek had NOTHING to do with this."

"HE KNEW! THE SON OF A BITCH KNEW THEY WERE COMING TO KILL US! KENNY'S DEAD BECAUSE OF HIM! YOU HEAR THAT, YOU COWARD—KENNY'S DEAD BECAUSE OF _YOU!_"

A second fist connected with Cartman's side before a third. Hands encircled Cartman's form, yanking him backward. With a strained effort, the boy was pulled away from the blond collapsing mass. As the boy's obscenities increased, Kyle wrapped his arms around the massive boy's shoulders, refusing to let go despite the slurs of "dirty Jew." Moments passed, the profanities dying into choked sobs.

"Kenny-" he whimpered. "Kenny."

"It's okay to cry," Kyle murmured, fingers indenting the round flesh. "It's okay."

The boy allowed himself to release, tears freely falling as his sobs ensued. "Kenny… Kenny…"

"We'll miss him," Kyle said, voice as tranquil as he could force it. "We'll miss him so much."

"He was my best friend."

"I know," he murmured. "_He_ knows."

"DOES ANYONE KNOW CPR?" Token's cry interrupted the serene background as he and Craig knelt by the fallen blond's sides.

"Tweek-" Craig breathed as he shook the boy's shoulders. A blue tint had graced the boy's features, eyes wide and staring before him.

"Oh, well, I know a little about it," Butters stumbled, hand raising as if answering a question. "My mom said that you're su-supposed to pinch someone's nose and breathe in. That's what she said when I walked in on her and my Dad last year and-"

"Oh for Christ's sake," Craig snapped. He lowered his head, pinching the boy's nose as his lips connected to the other's. Three breaths. He pounded upon Tweek's chest. Three breaths. Three pounds. Repeat.

The blond coughed, eyes squeezing shut for a moment.

"Oh God, Tweek…" Craig whispered.

"I—It's my fault."

"No! You had no way of knowing. We didn't listen!" Craig protested. The blond coughed twice more. Transfixed, Stan approached the fallen boy, eyes lifting to glance at Craig. The boy's fingers gently rubbed dried blood from the boy's throat before they guided to the back of his hair.

Perhaps it was that moment that Stan realized how similar Tweek looked to the disbanded, abused carcass of his friend.

A knot formed in his stomach as Craig's lips pressed against the blond's forehead. "Don't leave me," he pleaded, voice a hoarse whisper, "Don't leave me."

Stan's head lowered.

_Craig kissed rough—everything about him was rough from the way his teeth closed around the other's lower lip and to the way he straddled Stan's waist, to the way his hands found the other's throat, encircling tightly. The air seeped from his lungs as Stan's flailed, hands gripping onto Craig's in an attempt to loosen the other's hold. _

His fingers tightened into a fist, fingernails digging into the flesh of his palms.

_"I told you I'd kill you if you told anyone," he hissed, allowing his hands enough slack for the other to take a short breath._

Tweek lifted a hand, delicate fingers traced Craig's cheekbones.

_"Don't you know what you did?"_

Stan's hands moved to cover his eyes, phalanges sliding against his scalp before the mass of black hair was bunched in his hands.

"…_don't fuck with my friends." _

No.

"_You know why Craig beat you up, right?"_

Don't fuck with my friends.

Don't fuck my friends.

Don't fuck.

My friends.

Friends.

Friend.

Friend.

_"I don't want to do this!"_

_"What are you doing to do, Clyde?" _

_"That's enough, Cartman-" Craig interrupted, placing a hand on Clyde's shoulder. "Just get it over with quickly, okay bud?"_

_No raised middle fingers. No death threats. 'Don't fuck with my friends.' It didn't make sense. _

Don't fuck with my friends.

My friends.

My… _friend_.

The blond lifted his head, lips brushing quickly against Craig's.

"_Don't fuck with Tweek."_

The noxious scent of decaying carcass filled Stan's nostrils as his eyes rolled back, and then he welcomed the morning.

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A/N: Thanks for sticking with me for so long on this story—a bit gore-filled, wasn't it? Especially for this early in the morning. Either way, hope you enjoyed and if you were disgusted… then… uh… I guess I did my job?

PS. I didn't mean what I said about Samuel L. Jackson in the disclaimer. You are GOD!


	10. The Second Snatching

A/N: … er, hey everyone. Guess it's been… at least a year? More? Less? No idea. Either way, I'll be shocked if anyone's still reading this. I confess that I lost some of the drive for TLG, personal life, school and a near-fatal car accident got in the way. I wasn't as happy with this chapter as I would have liked to be but in order for the future plans to proceed, some of the boring stuff is essential. Weird tie in, right?

Anyway, to anyone reading, I hope that some sort of pleasure is derived from this, and my deepest apologies for vanishing off the face of the planet.

Disclaimer: I imagined that I owned South Park.

"Stan? Stan?"

The sky was a conjuncture of peach, orange, green, and grey.

Stan closed his eyes, groaning slightly as they reopened to the mass. Less sky, more definitive features. Prolonged nose, hazel eyes-

"-mn… Kyle?"

"He's up, you guys!"

Hands moved behind Stan's shoulders, a firm brace as the boy was pulled into an upright position. Sounds came, a jarring melody of voices, scuffling, stomping, God knew what else.

"… the hell happened..?"

"Dude, you like, totally passed out."

"Yeah, ha, what a wuss," Cartman snorted, half-laughing.

"Shut up, fat ass," Stan retorted. His eyes fell shut, fists bunching and rubbing over his eyes before they reopened to the world again. "… where's the bus?"

"Oh that?" Cartman replied, as if it were the most simple question ever.

"Yes, _that_. Where the fuck are we?"

"We left last night. Drug your sleeping, pussy-ass with us-"

"That's not the problem – the hell _are_ we?"

"… we're… not quite sure," Kyle replied, a hand extended. Stan realized then that Kyle was taller than him, much taller.

And then he realized he was sitting on the ground. Oh.

Gripping Kyle's palm, he pulled himself upright with mild strain, a hand reaching for his friend's shoulder in a steadying motion. "Shit, dude… you look really bad," Kyle murmured.

The group seemed to have come to a stop, and Stan counted heads – a melancholy had settled among the boys.

It hit like a ton of bricks.

"Holy shit, Kenny!"

"Huh?"

"Kenny! Kenny, we left him behind!" Stan panicked. "Smelling or not, we shouldn't have done that! We need to go back for him-"

"What the hell do you mean I smell? Fuck you."

The boy spun around, jaw slacking. "KENNY?"

And sure enough he was there – complete, no tears in his clothes, no hair stained red, no mangled corpse. No pungent odor of decaying flesh.

Just… Kenny.

"Oh hey, Kenny, what's up?" Kyle greeted.

"… this is so seriously fucked up," Stan groaned, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. "I really need to move to a new town."

"So, where are we going?" Craig spoke out, nasal voice loud though not so clear. Stan looked to him, the boy's middle finger flipping him off before it vanished. Stan learned long ago to just let it go.

"Well, f-fellas, I'd say we-we try to find a telephone wire and f-f-f-f-fooo, f-f-f-foooo, f-f-f-follow it back to the mainland," Jimmy suggested.

"As I said, seriously fucked up," Stan muttered.

"You okay?" Again, Kyle nudged me, elbow tapping my side. _No, thank you very much. Kenny apparently is a zombie, and no one seems to be even the slightest bit bothered._

"Yeah, I'm fine."

Always a different answer.

"All right. Moooooooove it," Cartman bullied.

An hour passed, or two or three – without a watch, concepts of time were absent. There was only the sound of the leaves crunching beneath their footsteps, some of the nonsensical chatter between the team, Cartman farting in Kyle's general direction – something that none of the boys cared to be around as proven by the shirts pulled up over their faces, only their eyes exposed from where they were hidden.

"I think we're lost," Clyde observed, head turning as he studied his surroundings.

"Shut up, Hot Guise," Cartman quipped, some sort of nickname picked up along the way though from where he wasn't sure. "We are not lost."

"We seem pretty lost."

"We are NOT lost, God damn it!"

"Then do you know where the hell we are?" Token interjected, eyes narrowed.

Cartman looked from left to right, seemingly startled by the question before he proceeded, "Of course I do, but why should I bother telling you? Why don't you go harass the Jew?"

"Shut up, fat ass!"

"Suck my balls!"

Kyle grunted, head turned aside. "I fucking hate Cartman," he muttered to Stan, but the boy wasn't paying attention. His eyes were fixed on the ground, watching as the sky seemed to get dark casting black shadows over his converse. 

He wanted to stop; his feet were aching.

"Are you as hungry as I am?" Stan asked his friend; verbal answer wasn't given. There would only be the rumbling of stomachs.

"All right, everyone, listen up!" Cartman called as he stood, facing the group. Tall, massive, intimidating. "It seems our rations are low so we have no choice left. We need to kill Kyle and roast him on a skewer."

"What?!" Kyle squeaked, arms folding over his chest.

"Dude, we're not killing Kyle," Stan said assertively.

"But he's the most logical choice. All that vegan crap he has means he's not contaminated and he'll taste better than anyone else. I mean, if we killed Kenny he'd be nothing but maggots because he's poor."

"Fuck you, fatass!" Kenny swore, hoodie pulled away from his head as he yelled. It was then that a seemingly humongous vulture dove to the ground, massive talons grabbing Kenny by the back of the hoodie as it yanked the screaming form up into the treetops.

"KENNY!"

But Stan's cries would come too late, and be futile, as the screeches of the baby birds pierced through the air and, one by one, bones fell to the Earth, shattering upon contact.

The group stared.

"So as I was saying, we need to kill Kyle because he's Jewish-"

"CARTMAN, YOU FAT FUCKING PIECE OF LARD! KENNY DIED AND YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT KILLING ME?!"

"Sometimes we gotta take one for the team, Kyle."

Stan pressed a hand to his head. "You know that feeling of déjà vu?" he murmured to no one in particular though he glanced about to see if anyone would listen.

No one answered.

"We need a new strategy," Token had suggested once the group slowed, a second camp set up. The fire took several match strikes to light, the group turning down Cartman's suggestion of using fart gas to make it ignite, Kyle pointing out that the entire forest would burn down. Again, turns would be taken to watch the fire through the night, to keep the warmth when it was time to sleep, Tweek and Craig offering for the first shift, Kyle and Stan the second, and so on. 

"Hey Stan?"

"Yeah Kyle?" the raven-haired boy asked as he settled on the ground, arms crossed beneath his head for a pillow.

"Are you mad at me?"

"Huh?"

"You're acting funny."

"Just tired. Hungry."

"Oh. Okay."

"… yeah."

"Good night, Stan."

"Night, Kyle."

Stan's eyes were the first to fall shut. He had thought he might have been dreaming when he felt an additional warmth on his back but, reopening them and looking over his shoulder, he found his friend lying there, back to him. He gazed at Kyle for a few moments before he rolled to face his back, arm wrapping around Kyle's waist.

For warmth, he'd make as an excuse.

But Stan had no reason for Kyle taking his hand and squeezing it, fingers intertwining with it as he held the limb to his chest.

Thanks for sticking with me. To be continued…


	11. Bad Omens and Beer

_Disclaimer_: I was recruited to become a gay exorcist (no, seriously) and was only spared recently by the crop sacrifice of Britney Spears. I am a terrible, terrible person for not updating this sooner, but real life interfered. … or cosplay. Because everyone knows cosplay is real life. As well, I suffered deeply by the rape of Indiana Jones and the Storm Trooper formerly known as Bob.

This chapter is dedicated to Chiraru for yelling at me to get my ass back in the fandom. Love to her, always.

--

Daybreak came as Stan awoke only to find a backpack cradled under his arm, bare fingers twisted around one of the shoulder straps. He thought he might have dreamed the entire sequence but, as he sat upright squinting to adjust to the new light of morning, there was the slightest indent beside him, leaves brushed away leaving the brown, dirt bottom. It was real – it had to be.

He offered a short yawn, arms stretching behind his head before he rose to his feet, lifted up the backpack, and pulled it over his shoulders, shrugging beneath its weight as he stepped forward: left, right, left right.

It was fairly quiet save for the grunts of the student body surrounding him, all the boys packing up for this day's travel.

"Hey Stan!" Kyle called, hand waving.

Stan lifted a hand halfway up before dropping it; an extended greeting wasn't necessary. He strode forward, left right let's go, he thought about saying, eyes scanning the trees before lifting to the traces of a telephone wire. A town couldn't be that far away.

"We should get going," he mused quietly. "I'm starving."

"Want to split a Kosher pack of Gummi Bears?"

Stan stared at his friend incredulously. "They make Kosher Gummi Bears?"

"Why wouldn't they?" Kyle replied, opening up the end.

"Oh. Dude." A hand extended forth, blue eyes fallen to the glycerin treats. Yellow, clear, green, and orange. Kyle got the reds.

He thought about the imprint in the leaves.

"Hey Kyle, about last night. Did-"

"Hey Stan, what's up?" a loud voice said, interrupting his train of thought.

And the boy turned, yelling then as he pulled back to see Kenny's orange parka. "Holy SHIT, dude!"

"What the fuck's your problem?" he mumbled, barely comprehensible. Kyle blinked at Stan.

"You feeling okay?"

"But Kenny's…"

"…?"

"… this is so fucked up." And truly, for lack of other words, it was. Stan pinched the bridge of his nose with his index finger and thumb. The sound of a crow echoed from overhead, and everything was still.

"Let's just get out of here," Stan said as he turned to his friend, the party seeming to assemble.

"What? I'm sorry, could you repeat that? Your fairy voice is too soft for my delicate ears," Cartman proclaimed.

"Fuck you, fat ass."

"No thanks, fudge packer."

"You stupid fuck face-"

"Now Stanley," Cartman continued, faux reprimanding him. "Is it really nice to call names? I mean, just because you're GAY doesn't mean you have to be a dick to the rest of us."

Clyde was the first to laugh, but soon the group set forth in peels of laughter.

"Look, whatever. Can we just shut up and get the fuck back on the road again? We'll run out of food soon enough," Kyle grunted. Kyle always came to save the day. Always.

Again, there was the shuffling of bags, a few words exchanged, and the troop set forth again, Kenny by Stan's side… again.

Kyle picked up the pace to stride along Stan's other side. "They'll knock it off soon enough. Probably when we get back. It's gonna get lame soon enough."

"… what?"

Kenny shrugged his shoulders. "I think it's funny as fuck."

"Kenny!" Kyle reprimanded.

"No, shut up. Think about it," he said, tugging the strings of his hood loose before pulling it away from his face, hand running through the mess of blonde hair. "Stan Marsh, all star quarterback, gay as gay can be. It's hilarious."

"Shut up, Kenny!" Kyle bit in. "It shouldn't matter whether Stan's gay or not."

"I never said it did. I just said I thought it was hilarious, which you can't deny… it IS hilarious. Talk about irony."

Kyle blinked. "Dude, when did you get a good vocabulary?"

"Librarian porn," was the simplest answer as Kenny pulled up the hood once more.

Stan frowned, torso inclined forth as if it would make the load on his back lighter. "I just want to go home, get a shower, sleep, and pretend this never happened."

"You'd take being in the closet over just a few taunts?" Stan grit his teeth at Kenny.

"Just a _few_ taunts?!"

"Kenny, dude, seriously, leave him alone," Kyle interrupted, again the peacemaker, as always. The blond merely shrugged his shoulders in response.

"If it were anyone else, he'd be laughing. You, too." That point that was brought up again and again. Stan couldn't argue it.

Seconds became minutes which became hours, and as their path became dark the bright glows of city lights shone, blinking in the night. Enthused, the group picked up their pace, eyes set on the nearest motel despite the "M" that was turned on its side nearly flickering out.

They'd be able to rest. Call home. Get rides. This mess would be over. Somewhat of a celebratory cheer erupted, Cartman gloating that it was due to his awesomely leadership skills that they found sanctuary. Stan, however, wasn't laughing. Backpack set on the ground, he quietly observed the people walking down the sidewalks. Army ants. Some sort of analogy like that.

"Hey guys! Over here!" Kyle yelled from a payphone. "I got through on collect, hold on."

Sheepherding, Stan thought next as he watched the group walk across the street, orbiting around the glass box housing the red-haired youth.

"Yes, hello, this is Kyle Broflovski and… what? No, we weren't able to play because the damn bus broke down after we hit like a dwarf or something."

"IT WAS A GNOME! OH JESUS CHRIST ON A CRACKER! AHH!" Tweek squealed loudly.

"Shut up, Tweek!" Kyle snapped, hand over the mouth piece for a second. "So yeah, I need you to get a new bus out here to pick us up. Uh huh. Oh uh…" Kyle paused again. "Anyone have any idea where we are?"

"We're in like, Idaho."

"Shut up, Cartman! We are NOT in Idaho!"

"Screw you, Jewface. I know Idaho when I see it, and this is Idaho! It reeks of potato and homo."

"… what?" Token blinked.

"Tch, don't you know," Cartman continued, eyes rolling once. "Idaho's famous for potatoes, and we have one homo here."

"Cartman, shut up about Stan being gay!" Kyle snapped before freezing, knuckles turning white on the phone. "Oh, he's not. That was just… we were goofing off. Look, just, can you get someone from the school to pick us up or something? Please? The sooner the better. Just like... I don't know, track down the call. There's a motel called Lucky Seven if that's any help. Scuzzy place but-" he paused. "Are you listening to a word I say? Okay, so you'll be here and- NO! You don't need to put up a Facebook Bulletin about Stan being gay, damn it!"

Kyle growled as he slammed the phone down. "God damn it." Eyes moved to the group. "We're supposed to get rooms at the motel and they'll be here to pick us up tomorrow."

"And get food. I'm starving" Cartman protested. "C'mon Hurry up, you guys! I'm gonna die or something!"

"Guys, look. We need to get organized and make sure we don't go over budget," Token interfered warily. "We're doing lesser rooms at the motel, as few as we can take."

Stan lifted up his bag, shifting it into one hand rather than pull it over his shoulders. Before the others, he trudged toward the door. He slowed with the sensation of being followed, shoulders jerking with the light touch to them.

"Stan..?"

He sighed, non-responsive at first. "What?"

"Stan, you're not okay. Look…" Kyle paused, sighing. "Forget it. Let's just get a room, get something to eat, and get some sleep."

"You don't have to."

"Huh?"

"Share a room with me. I can get my own. Wouldn't want you to deal with the guys ripping on you."

"Stan!" Kyle closed his hand firmly around Stan's shoulder, turning his friend to face him. "Stan, LOOK! I don't care about it, and it'll pass soon enough. Once we get back to school, it'll be forgotten. You'll see. You're still my best friend – why would I care what you like to stick it in better?"

"_Kyle!_"

"What?!"

They were silent a moment before laughing. The sound was quiet at first, then building volume, a melodious tone accompanying it, breaking the tension of night under the steady humming over the flickering, overhead billboard "M" light above. For that moment, everything felt safe. They were two boys, two best friends, hanging out as they always did. Strange city amidst rowdy boys from a town in Colorado no one heard of.

Stan lifted a hand, allowing fingertips to brush against Kyle's cheek for a brief moment.

He wasn't laughing.

_"Don't fuck with my friends!"_

"Stan..?" Kyle uttered, shortness of a whisper as his friend inclined his head toward him, then stilled inches away.

"… Fuck," Stan got out, stepping back from Kyle, arm swung out to push the male away.

"Stan? STAN?!"

Stan didn't answer. He kept his head low as he walked away from the motel in the direction of the dim bar lights across the road.

"STAN!"

He closed his eyes. Soon he'd feel it, the hand on his arm, the voice beckoning him back, and he'd obey.

But when Stan opened his eyes, all he heard was Clyde's distinctive voice in the background.

"What just happened?"

And the answer from Kyle which made his stomach turn, "I think Stan was trying to kiss me."

Stan grit his teeth, the chattering behind him drowning out as he pressed a hand to the door of the bar and pushed it in. The boisterous banter of the drunks would be his company and, a twenty slapped down with a fake ID presented, the deep amber ale would be too.

So consumed was he in the drink that he didn't sense the presence beside him until it began to speak.

"We need to talk."

"Look, Kyle-" Stan began, but he never finished.

It was Craig.

--

_A/N:_Hi everyone. Uh… yeah. Essentially, I fail for not editing this the way that I should have. I lost a lot of motivation for it due to some IRL issues that only now are getting resolved. That with the combination of school and everything… there was a lot of stress.

Thank you so much, those of you who have continued reading the story and been patient enough to wait for the next update. I really appreciate it immensely.


	12. Dropping the Soap without any Rope

Disclaimer: Matt and Trey own South Park. They did "Imaginationland." LOL I see what you did there. 3 Anywhizzy in the flippity-floppity-flooozy-hizzouse, this disclaimer is also brought to you by Gatorade, which has nothing to do with this fanfic. The author is property of someone. Maybe. Oh, also Gatorade is delicious. Especially the orange kind. Also why the hell is raspberry "blue"?

Anyway, shall we? We shall, yes.

* * *

To say he was surprised to see Craig would be an understatement; Stan was floored. But there he was, not threatening to kill him, and trying to start up some sort of conversation? Stan didn't trust it, but there wasn't much he could do about it except rise to his feet and walk alongside Craig to one of the tall tables in the back corner. The pair pulled themselves up before staring each other down. They could have had the potential to be spitting images of each other, maybe in the right clothes mistaken from the back, but Stan's face was more effeminate and Craig's only marring feature was bad teeth, something he tried to hide at times.

At the new table, a round of drinks was ordered and they remained quiet. In the background, the Rolling Stones "You Can't Always Get What You Want" faded into Keith Urban's "Nobody Drinks Alone." Stan downed half the bottle in a few large gulps.

"We need to talk," Craig reiterated, taking a small sip of his.

"So you said."

Craig fidgeted, hands moving beneath the table before he finally sat on them, probably in attempt to keep from flipping Stan off. By that point, Stan was too drowsy to care much. "You know," Craig began, "I really hated you. And I think you got what you deserve from the guys bullying you… but I was wrong. I shouldn't have fucked you."

So eloquent. Stan finished his drink and let the bottle hit the table hard as he lifted a hand. Another.

"I mean it. I'm sorry. It was brash, and I was wrong."

"Why are you apolo—apologizing?" Stan caught himself in the slightest fumble of words. "Were you just looking for another fuck?"

"No. I wanted to apologize."

"Why?"

"I felt bad."

"So now you feel bad? You know what I think? I think that's bullshit," Stan snorted as he pulled the beer to his lips. Stan preferred to think that he took after his mother, but his drinking habits mirrored his father's. He tried to avoid drinking as much as possible when making that revelation but this called for desperate times. He wanted to forget. Needed to.

"You've been messed up since then. And I talked with Tweek and Clyde and they thought I should apologize as well. So, here I am. Apologizing."

"You should take that apology and shove it up your rectum. Bitch."

Craig blinked at Stan and groaned. "Great. I go out of my way to try and be nice to you, and you're wasted."

"Am not. Another!" he called to the bartender, not quite finished with the one on the table. Craig twitched, and Stan was certain that he was restraining from flipping him off again. "You… you can apologize later if you realllly mean it. I mean, fuck. Probably you're- you're only apologizing because Tweek's not putting out."

"Leave him out of this," Craig growled darkly.

"Why? He was the reason this enti--whole mess started," Stan challenged. "Or do you deny that? Huh? HUH?!"

"I'm not apologizing because he's not putting out. I'm apologizing because I did something wrong to you after you gave him a handjob."

"And he gave me a blowjob. Don't forget that," Stan added, leaning across the table. Craig was shaking in fury. He closed his eyes in a slow countdown.

"It's not that simple."

"Uh huh."

"I'm about ready to drag you to the motel and _show_ you _why_ I did what I did."

"Then do it," Stan challenged, shocked when he was pulled to his feet, Craig throwing cash on the table. Stan barely grabbed the bottles of beer, one of which he drained and dropped next to the garbage can where it broke and shattered, the other quickly brought to his lips.

Craig half-carried Stan toward the motel, pulling one of Stan's arms over his shoulders as they walked and wove side to side, Stan drinking and breaking into song.

"_Hey, come on try a littttttle~_

_Nothing is forever~_

_There's got to be something better than in the middddddle~_

_But me and Cinderellaaa~_

_We ut it all togetherrrrrr~_

_We can drive it home~_

_With one headliiiiiiight~~~"_

"Would you fucking shut up?" Craig hissed. "No one wants to hear you butcher The Wallflowers."

"You know, it's like… it's like I'm the Cinderella."

Craig knocked the bottle from Stan's hand as he turned, grunting as he bent over and with a heave lifted Stan up and over his shoulder, ignoring the way he kicked and struggled to pull free.

"Dude, Stan? What the hell's wrong with him?" Kyle asked, head turning as the attention of the team was caught, or at least Jimmy, Token, Kyle, Cartman, Kenny, and Butters as they played hackey sack.

"Is that Ky-KYYYYLLLE, he's KIDNAPPING ME!"

"He's plastered. I'll bring him back to your room after I have a little chitchat with him."

"DON'T LET HIM TAKE ME! HE'S GONNA RAPE ME AGAIN! I DON'T WANT A BUTTACHE!"

Craig growled as he kicked at his motel door, Clyde opening it. "I swear to God, Marsh, when you sober up I'm kicking your ass." And he carried Stan in, Clyde closing the door to the group who had once again resumed playing hackey sack save for Kyle who gave a lingering glance then turned to the game.

Inside the room, Stan was dumped on the bed, almost instantly falling asleep. When he woke up, he found himself with his jeans around his ankles and in his underwear. The shower was on, Clyde standing outside it waiting his turn, Clyde sitting in a chair by the door. Stan groaned as he looked to himself. "Shit, you guys did rape me," he muttered, grunting as he pulled up his jeans.

"No. You had the brilliant idea to give Tweek your underwear as a replacement for what the Underpants Gnomes would steal," Craig mumbled.

"It's true," Clyde added.

Stan sighed. "So what? Why the big secret conference crap?" He rubbed at his head.

"I wanted to apologize for what I did."

"Oh God, not this again," Stan moaned.

"If I weren't dating Tweek, I still would have done that since he's my friend."

"Why Tweek? Because you have a hard on for him?" Stan spat bitterly.

Craig looked at Clyde who looked to the shower, then nodded. "Tweek," Craig began, and paused. "Tweek's been raped."

Immediately, Stan felt sobered up but hit with something harder than just a hangover. "What?"

Craig's lips pursed in a thin line. Clyde continued in his stead. "We're sworn to secrecy on who but it's happened for awhile. There's a system that happens… did you kiss him?"

"What? No. I didn't."

"That was it there." Clyde exhaled. "He switches, becomes another person when he's not shown that someone cares about the action. So like, he might have consented when you were jerking him off, but going down on you was probably, to him, going down on somebody else."

"Jesus Christ," Stan murmured, hand moving to his mouth. "That's… dude, why didn't you tell anyone?"

"Sworn to secrecy."

"And you listened to that _why?_ Don't either of you have any sense?"

"It's more complicated than you think. Just leave it like that," Clyde exhaled. "And for the love of God, don't tell anyone."

"He needs therapy or something."

Craig shifted his weight. "He does get therapy. And pills. Things to make him relax. To make him happy."

"Oh. Well, they should do something," Stan persisted.

"Drop it," Craig said, head turning to the bathroom door as the water from the shower turned off followed by an "Oh Jesus, I dropped the soap and there's no rope!"

Clyde sighed as he looked to Craig. "Permission?"

"It's cool."

And Clyde disappeared into the bathroom. "I'll get it. Go get dry," was heard through the closed door.

Stan and Craig were left in silence.

"So…" Craig started.

"Yeah…"

"Will you accept my apology?"

Stan saw the bed, the floor, the pillow, tasted the linen, felt blood, felt cum, felt disgusting, felt gross, felt violated, humiliated, shower, stall, soap, shampoo, conditioner, nothing, nothing, nothing, cold, cold, so cold, faggot, it's not like you, Stan, Stanstanstanstan.

"Well?" Craig asked.

Stan bolted to his feet. "I need to go," he said more suddenly, the room seeming to tilt on its side as he rose fumbling toward the door. Craig was on his feet, arm outstretched to help but it was batted away. "Get the fuck away from me."

"I apologized."

"Just get the fuck away!" Stan snapped, gripping the door, twisting it the wrong way before getting it right and pulling it open. He stepped out disoriented, shivering with the cold night air. Wherever they were, it definitely wasn't someplace warm, and probably not too far from home. He shuddered as he moved down the line of rooms, unsure of which was his.

"You'll freeze," Craig called.

"GO AWAY!"

Craig hesitated, then sighed. "Our door will be open for when you start freezing your balls off." And he closed the door quietly.

Stan started to pace. A gnawing bit at his stomach. Images came to his mind – Tweek. He hooked up with and helped Tweek relive a horror, something that Craig and Clyde knew about yet were too fucked up to tell anyone about it. And then he was just supposed to apologize? He didn't think so.

Shivering, he walked past each window, peering through the tiny gaps of the curtains but nothing seemed familiar. He didn't know what time it was. The sky was black, ground starting to coat with snow. Rapidly falling. He sat on the floor underneath the overhang, knees pulls to his chest, arms wrapped around himself, rocking back and forth. It was so cold. So very cold. Just like the room. That night.

_"Don't fuck with my friends."_

His eyes squeezed shut as his shoulders shook in hard heaves, cries muted by the wind as tears formed in the corners of his eyes and rolled down his cheeks where they froze.

It was after an inch of snow accumulated on his body that any of the doors reopened.

"Stan?"

The raven-haired boy turned his head, squinting. "Kyle?" he called back, hoarsely.

"Stan?! Jesus," the boy said, still in his pajamas and slippers as he ran out, arms moving around the boy's shoulders. "You're frozen stiff. We need to get you inside."

"Kyle…."

"It's okay. It's all right, now." With more of a strain than Craig had, Kyle lifted up Stan and carried him into the motel room, kicking the door shut behind him.

"Holy shit, dude," Kenny swore, immediately out of bed. Cartman blinked sleepily.

"What the Hell's going on? It's two-thirty in the fucking morning," he complained.

"Stan was in the snow all this time."

The boy sniffled, shivering still though the warm air was feeling good against his skin. He was too numb to feel himself being pulled to his feet, to the three bodies surrounding him. He thought he said no as they removed garment by garment off his body, pealing the items away before carrying him into the bathroom and placing him in the bathtub. Warm water filled it, something that stung at first but then was comforting. He shivered. It was cold. So cold. Hands were on his body, rubbing him with soap and washcloths, warming. He liked the touch. The forms spoke but he couldn't make out words, finally closing his eyes as he let his body relax, opening them when he was pushed into an upright position, hands over his eyes as water was poured on his head. And as quickly as that started, it was over as he was pulled to his feet, six hands wrapping and patting him down with towels, then two moving away as a hairdryer was turned on. The hot air was exhilarating. So euphoric. He shuddered and leaned against one of the forms.

"Aw, dude's getting a stiffy. Fag," Cartman complained.

"Dude, shut the fuck up." Kenny.

"It's going to be okay, Stan. It'll be okay," Kyle murmured taking care as he lifted each of Stan's legs and worked them through pajama pants, then sliding them up over his thighs and on his hips, careful with the waistband so it wouldn't scrape against the sensitive part. Next were the arms that were put through the flannel top, buttons done carefully. Socks were then rolled on his feet.

"Can you walk now?" Kyle asked, but Stan didn't answer, only leaned against the form as he took small steps, led to the closest bed that he pulled himself onto, wriggling to get beneath the covers. He felt warmth on each side of him and opened his eyes.

"A whole bed to myself? Shweeeeeet," Cartman said with glee.

Stan blinked a few times as he turned it to the left – Kenny on his side, arm wrapped around Stan's waist – then the right – Kyle's left hand seizing his own as the right moved over the other's body. Stan's eyelids felt heavy. Kenny was already breathing deeply, something which came with sleep. Soon he'd be under.

"Hey Kyle," Stan whispered softly.

"Stan, thank God…" he murmured, working to turn Stan on his side to face him, Kenny, in sleep, scooting to snuggle up behind Stan. It was cold, and their bodies were warm, so warm. "Stan, promise me you won't do that again. I was so scared."

"Kyle…" Stan whispered, that same tone as he tightened the hold on Kyle's hand, other arm moving to wrap around his waist, Kyle's arm wrapping around his own in response. "I'm sorry."

"Stan, just… just go back to the way you were before. This isn't like you. None of this is. You have me worrying around the clock."

"Sorry."

"Please," Kyle begged, Stan's eyes starting to get heavy, and heavier, and heavy, and heavier.

"Hey Kyle?" he whispered.

"Yes, Stan?"

"If you ever end up gay, you'd tell me, wouldn't you?"

Kyle was quiet for a moment and nodded. "You'd be the first I'd tell. Promise."

"Good," Stan murmured. "Good."

He shifted his weight, inclining his head forth toward his best friend. Kyle didn't budge, staring at him. "Stan..?" he whispered quietly. "Are you sure you want to do that?"

Stan paused mid-motion, lips already somewhat pursed. His expression relaxed and he settled back to the pillow. Kyle exhaled and squeezed the other more tightly. "You'll thank me for stopping you when you're sober."

But Stan didn't, if not for anything than waking up to the sound of cameras, the blinding blinking lights of flashes, and chatter coming from the bulk of the team. "The hell-" he started before he felt the movement on both sides, Kenny offering a "Fuck off" before snuggling back up to the warmth of Stan's back, and Kyle bolting upright in bed.

"Cartman, you son of a bitch!"

"You rich son of a bitch, you mean. I just made a hundred dollars off these guys for letting them take these pics. Ha, you'd think everyone in South Park was a fucking homo."

Stan would have loved to fight Cartman once more but it was Kyle who leapt from the bed, took off across the room, and tackled the other to the floor. He pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled.

"What's wrong?" Kenny asked against his shirt.

Stan shifted, turning so he faced Kenny, tugging the blankets up over their heads for warmth, arm wrapping around the blond's waist.

"Nothing," he answered quietly gazing into another set of blue eyes. "Nothing at all," he added in a whisper moments before he felt lips against his own, this time not from his own initiation.

* * *

A/N: So yeah, I updated. HAPPY? I hope so! You know what I did? It's now 1:30 AM and I'm sick as a dog with nasty tonsillitis yet I said to myself, "Daryl, be a man! Write the next chapter, fag." And so I did.

But I'm sick as fuck so now it's time to sleep for reals.

Comments are always nice, though obviously unnecessary. Hope you enjoyed and stay tuned for next time.


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